


The Science Bros in..."Along for the Ride"

by Margaret Ann (Manderson)



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, MythBusters RPF, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Gen, International Fanworks Day 2016, Science Bros
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 17:24:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6018352
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manderson/pseuds/Margaret%20Ann
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Tony and Bruce, the Science Bros, decide test a myth from their very favorite TV show, Mythbusters, in honor of the show's final season. However, Bruce's misgivings grow as his bro starts acting a little...strange. Will they manage to confirm their myth, or will they end up busted?</p><p>Written for International Fanworks Day 2016.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Science Bros in..."Along for the Ride"

Up in the topmost suite of Stark Tower, a huge, flat-screen TV flickered its multicolored lights onto the faces of two best bros. Tony Stark, inventor and billionaire genius, leaned forward with his elbows on his knees, the decal on his t-shirt glowing brightly. Bruce Banner, scientist and doctor, leaned back into the cushions, his arms crossed behind his head. Both had a look of wonder on their faces as the screen showed a slow-motion recap of a gigantic explosion. The hosts spoke for a moment, made their determination regarding the validity of the test, and cut to the familiar theme song and the credits.

The bros sighed contentedly and smiled.

“I love  _ Mythbusters _ ,” Tony said, stroking his goatee.

“Me, too,” replied Bruce. He shifted to a more comfortable position.

“I hate how it’s not going to be on anymore,” continued the goateed man wistfully. “Do you think if I gave them a couple million dollars they’d do another season?”

“Probably not. I think I read that they have plans to do other things. They aren’t even touring anymore.”

“Oh.” Tony was quiet for a moment as the intro screen for the DVD played on repeat. After a bit he clapped his hands and exclaimed, “That’s it!”

“Huh?” Bruce looked up from his phone.

Tony turned and grinned at his bro. “ _ We’ll _ be the new  _ Mythbusters _ !”

The scientist blinked several times. “We can’t. Jamie and Adam already claimed that title. It’d be copyright infringement.”

“Well, okay, I’ll give you that,” Tony replied, waving his hand submissively. “Although, Adam had excellent choice in facial hair, but I don’t know if you could pull off Jamie’s epic walrus-stache.”

“Thanks,” Bruce said dryly, rubbing his graying stubble. “I wouldn’t go bald, anyway. Natasha would kill me.”

“Right. But that’s not what I’m talking about, anyway. I’m saying that  _ we  _ should be them! Do what they do. Test myths.” Tony smiled brilliantly, practically patting himself on the back for his idea.

“I don’t think that will go well,” Bruce answered slowly, mind working in overdrive as he tried to come up with a compelling reason not to agree with his bro’s plan. “We’ve got a lot on our plates,” he finished lamely.

“Eh, that particle accelerator can go on the back burner for a bit. NASA gave us six months. We can finish it later.” He scootched a few inches closer. “C’mon, my ideas are always awesome!”

“Trying to boil eggs in the microwave wasn’t awesome,” Bruce countered.

“Well—”

“And wearing diapers so we could wait in line to see  _ Star Wars Episode VII: The Force Awakens _ wasn’t awesome.”

“Worth it to see it a fourth time.”

“And stealing Steve’s S.H.I.E.L.D. ID so you could get the senior discount at Denny’s really wasn’t awesome.”

“I had that black eye for weeks,” agreed Tony nostalgically. “But it was funny. C’mon, admit it, Banner. It’s always funny.”

“My Grand Slam was cold. And it’s always a huge mess.” Bruce crossed his arms over his chest.

“Then what about one myth. I pick one myth, and you and I work together to see if we can change a ‘busted’ to a ‘confirmed.’”

“Just one myth?” The scientist eyed him warily.

“One myth.” Tony held up his hand, thumb crossing his palm. “Bro’s honor.”

Seeing no way out of this scheme, Bruce sighed. “One myth. And if it’s still busted— _ even  _ if it’s still busted—we’re done. We go back to the NASA project.”

Tony practically squealed. “Yay! Jarvis, you got that, right? You heard him say it?”

“Yes, sir,” the artificially intelligent butler replied. So used to the billionaire’s whims was he that there wasn’t even a hint of resignation in his smooth, British voice.

“Awesome!” Tony stood and started pressing buttons on his watch. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

 

—————

 

The next morning Bruce arrived to the lab at his usual time. He liked to go in early, even though all he really needed to do was hop an elevator three doors down the hall and take it to the seventy-sixth floor of Stark Tower. He’d been recently considering getting his own place, maybe somewhere pleasant he could share with Natasha—something  _ private _ . He hadn’t had a chance to discuss it with her yet, and it wasn’t exactly the kind of decision he wanted to make on his own. In the meantime, he didn’t really mind living in Stark Tower, and Tony hadn’t infringed on the Guidelines for Harmonious Living Bruce had set as a condition for moving in. Plus, he couldn’t beat the commute.

But when he walked into the Research and Development laboratory Tony had set aside for him, he began seriously reconsidering his position on moving later rather than sooner. The lab was almost completely empty. It wasn’t just that Tony wasn’t there tinkering away, coffee already in the pot—it was that there was no pot. The entire room had been cleared of everything remotely resembling work and research materials. All but one table was gone, and the models and calculations Bruce had been making for the past six months were nowhere to be found. The glass window was unlatched—the one that took up the entire west wall, which Bruce had to close off with curtains in the afternoon so he wouldn’t go blind. Along one wall was a variety of tool boxes and piles of steel beams, sheet aluminum, and rebar. Along another wall were what looked like Tony’s suit-making tools, including his laser cutters and some fairly intense bending aparati.

Just as Bruce was going over to inspect it, the glass wall slid open and Tony rose into view. His suit was gleaming crimson and gold in the morning light, the repulsor jets in his elbows and feet glowing bluish-white. This, however, was not the cause of Bruce’s astonishment.

It was the car.

Tony held aloft a gorgeous canary-yellow car, expertly detailed and lovingly polished. Everything about it was well-kept, from the chrome “bumper” hugging the triangular nose of the vehicle to the tiny rear spoiler on the back. The sunrise glinted off the hardtop roof and sparkled on the air vents of the miles-long hood. Bruce’s breath caught in his throat as he stared at the incredible vehicle.

“Move it, will you?” The mechanical command issuing from Tony’s helmet startled the scientist out of his reverie, and he backed away quickly to a corner of the room. Very carefully Tony lowered the car to the reinforced concrete floor of Bruce’s lab, relaxing only when all four wheels were safely down. When it was all settled he lifted his mask, grinning with pure exhilaration. “What do you think?”

Bruce stepped forward slowly, his eyes taking in the gleaming yellow frame and the vanity plates. He didn’t speak as Tony continued, “It’s a ’67 Camaro. They used an Impala on the show, but this is still a Chevy, and it was easier to get my hands on this. Cheaper, too.”

“Cheaper…” Bruce looked up, startled, from his reflection in the sparking paint job. “Tony, this is in pristine condition. It probably costs more than everything I own. Heck, it’s probably worth more than Barton’s  _ house _ .”

“Is it? I wouldn’t know,” Tony said loftily as he began setting his armor to retract.

The scientist looked into the car and saw a pair of dark sunglasses in a special slot on the dashboard. There was a parking stub hanging from the rearview mirror, too, and some junk mail in the backseat. He gasped and whirled to face his bro. “Is this  _ Fury’s _ car?” When Tony didn’t answer immediately, he marched over and grabbed the goateed man by the shoulders. “Did you steal Nick Fury’s Camaro?”

Tony shrugged. “It was the only one of the right era I could find on short notice.”

Bruce backed up, breathing heavily. He clutched at the front of his button-down shirt and slumped down on a nearby tool chest. “I can’t believe you stole Fury’s car. You know the Ferrari in  _ Ferris Bueller _ ? The one that belonged to Cameron's dad? Fury loves this car more than that. I don’t think even Coulson loves Lola as much as Fury loves his Camaro. That’s why he never drives it. I don’t think he even  _ mentions  _ it because he’s afraid something will happen to it.” Bruce stood, eyes narrowed, and advanced on his bro. “Tony, what is going to happen to it?”

“We’re doing the rocket car myth.”

The world seemed to go dark for a minute, and Bruce staggered, leaning against the car for support. There was a rushing sound in his ears. He looked down at his hand on the Camaro’s hood and jerked away. “No. No way, Tony. We can’t do that.”

“You promised! Jarvis got it on record.” Tony stepped forward in his white tank top and torn-up jeans, his suit having fully retracted into his watch. “We’re doing the rocket car myth because that’s the first one the  _ Mythbusters _ ever did, and I want to make a car fly.”

“Then use one of your own cars!” Bruce exclaimed. “You’ve got at least twenty of them. Don’t use Fury’s Camaro. You have to take this back.”

Tony looked back and forth between the car and his bro. Indecision was written plainly on his goateed face. Bruce could practically see the gears whirring in his brain as he weighed the pros and cons of his plan. All of the sudden he grabbed a wrench from one of the work tables and thunked it hard on the trunk of the Camaro. A fist-sized dent appeared, and the edges of the metal left scars in the bright paint.

Bruce stared at the dent, dumbfounded. “What—what—Tony, what were you  _ thinking _ ?” He raced over and ran his fingertips over the blemishes .”It’s—you  _ broke _ it!”

“Yup!” Tony said, tossing the wrench to the side. “It’s ruined now. I guess we’d better make it fly.” He rubbed his hands together, grinning. “I need some sheet metal and a torch. Give me a hand, will you?”

The scientist stuttered a few more unintelligible syllables, but did as he was told. He had no energy to do anything else.

 

—————

 

Some unknown amount of time later Bruce was bent over the engine messing with the oil when he heard a voice say, “Aww, there’s my grease-monkey!”

He thunked his head on the metal hood. Rubbing the back of his head he saw Natasha sauntering into the room. Her copper hair tumbled about her ears in loose curls, and she wore olive-green cargo pants and an official black S.H.I.E.L.D. tank top. On her feet was a pair of plain white canvas shoes, the kind Bruce knew she got for three dollars at the grocery store every spring. The overall effect was simple yet stunning, and seeing her set his heart racing. “Hi, Nat,” he managed once the pain in his skull had eased.

She walked up and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Tony sent me a text saying you were helping him work on a car, but that you wanted to see me.”

The scientist decided that maybe his bro wasn’t so bad, after all. “I’d hug you, but I’m all dirty right now,” Bruce managed.

“I can see that. If a certain playboy weren’t here, I’d have to figure out how to get you out of those oil-stained clothes,” she purred, a glint in her eye. “It’s too bad he’s stuck under this thing or else we could test out the back seat.” She kicked Tony lightly in the leg.

“Do what you need to do,” the billionaire replied, voice muffled by the car. “Just pretend I’m not here. I can go work on the wings across the room.”

“Wings?” asked the redhead. She looked up and down the length of the car. “Wait a second. Is this Fury’s Camaro?” Before either bro could answer, she shook her head. “Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know. I’m finally off-assignment. The less you say about it now, the better I can feign innocence later.

“I knew there was a reason I liked you two together,” Tony chimed from under the vehicle.

“Stark got it into his head that he wanted to try to prove a myth from  _ Mythbusters _ plausible in honor of their final season. He chose the rocket car myth, and this thing will  _ not _ be getting wings because that wouldn’t fit the spirit of the original story.” This last he directed at the pair of denim-wrapped legs poking out from under the body of the car.

“Fine, but I get to pick the rocket, then,” Tony replied.

Bruce turned back to face his girlfriend. “I’m sorry we can’t spend the day together, honey.”

“It’s okay,” she replied, reaching up and ruffling his graying hair. “I just hate to see you wasting your day on this.”

“Tell me about it,” grumbled the scientist. “It’s not like this is going to work.”

“Ye of little faith,” remarked Tony as he slid out from under the car on the roller board. Oily smudges graced his cheekbones and shirt, and his hands were practically pitch-black with the stuff. He wiped them off on a rag and continued, “I can’t believe that you aren’t with me on this one, Banner.”

“I’m in it for the explosions. If I weren’t completely with you, I would be on my way out right now.”

“But you don’t think it’ll work.” He turned to Natasha. “Agent Romanoff, tell your man that this will be glorious.”

“It will be glorious…” she began. Tony nodded his thanks, and she finished, “…Gloriously explosive.”

“You, too?” Tony placed one hand on his heart and staggered back as if wounded. “You’re really convinced this won’t work?”

“ _ Mythbusters _ is one of the only subtitled shows I could get in Budapest. I’ve seen that episode a dozen times at least. Of course I don’t think this is going to work.”

Tony looked back and forth between his bro and the redhead. “I can’t believe what I’m hearing. Neither of you think I can do this.” He tossed the rag onto a nearby tool cart. “Fine, then. I’ll tell you what. I’m so certain that I can make this work that I’m willing to drive this thing.”

Natasha raised one eyebrow and Bruce stared blankly at his bro. “You mean, you’ll be in the car with the rocket strapped to the back, and you’ll fly into the cliff at an unholy speed?”

“Sure will,” Tony grinned. “And she’ll  _ fly _ .”

Bruce looked hopelessly at his girlfriend, who just shrugged.

“So, are you going to help me, or are you just going to stand there?” the billionaire asked, sitting back down on the edge of the scooter so he could continue working on the undercarriage.

“I’ll help,” Bruce said reluctantly. He picked up a wrench and began checking the bolts on the engine again. If his bro was going to be a moron, it was the least he could do to keep him from getting killed.

 

—————

 

About half an hour later, just as Tony and Bruce were yanking the backseat out of the Camaro so they’d have room to mount the rocket when it came time for that later, Clint Barton, alias Hawkeye, sauntered into the makeshift garage. He stepped around the car parts strewn all over the place as the two men recorded data about the newly-empty rear cavity. He had his phone out like he’d been reading a text. Without looking up he said, “Hey, guys. Get this. Police scanner picked up that someone stole Fury’s car. What kind of suicidal idiot would do that, you think?”

“What idiot, indeed,” Bruce’s girlfriend chimed from her perch on one of the tool boxes.

“Oh, hey, Nat,” the man said, scrolling through the article on his phone. “Fury’s pissed, by the way. I’d hate to bed the dude who thought it’d be smart to jack his baby from its parking space when he gets caught.”

Tony and Bruce dragged the backseat over against some cinderblocks and leaned it up to create a makeshift couch. “I wouldn’t want to try to imagine how a diseased mind like that would work,” Bruce muttered.

“Don’t worry,” the billionaire said to the archer. “It’s just a car. It’s not like it’s a priceless heirloom or something.”

“I don’t know about that, Stark. Says here it’s a ’67 Camaro. It’s the first model year for that car, and originals go for over $40,000 easy. His is in mint condition, apparently, so he could get even more for it.” Bruce could see the cogs turning in Clint’s brain as he calculated what he could do with that kind of cash.

“I’m sure the car will find its way back,” Tony said, grabbing his soldering iron and an I-beam he’d cut earlier. “It might even be cooler-looking when it does.”

Bruce shot a worried look at his girlfriend, who just shrugged.

“Maybe,” Clint said. He pressed a button on his phone and slid it into the pocket of his purple-and-gray striped hoodie. “Anyway, I just thought you might be interested.” He plopped down on the backseat/couch and slung one arm across the back. “So, what’re you guys doing?”

“I’m going to fly a rocket car,” Tony said proudly.

“Right into the side of a cliff,” grouched Bruce.

“Positive thoughts,” the goateed bro replied. He pulled his facemask on and began soldering the beam in place. Sparks flew under the metal and Bruce stepped over to stand beside his girlfriend.

“Cool,” Clint remarked. “Anything I can do?”

“If you’re offering, I could go for some popcorn,” Natasha suggested. “I’m just enjoying myself, sitting here and imagining all the ways that this end badly.”

“I heard that!” shouted the billionaire over the hissing flame of his welding torch. “And just for that, you’re not allowed to ride with me.”

“My heart breaks.” She winked at Bruce, and a surge of affection for his snarky sweetheart rushed through his veins.

“I’ll see what I can scrounge up from the lounge,” Clint said, hopping up.

A few minutes later he returned with a big bowl of popcorn. He set it down on the couch and took a seat. Natasha slid off the toolbox and plopped down beside the bowl, crossing her legs and grabbing a handful of fluffy kernels. Around a mouthful, Clint asked, “What kind of rocket do you have in mind for this? It looks like a pretty solid car already, so it’ll need to be fairly powerful.”

“According to the myth, they just used a JATO rocket, which is a military one that releases about three thousand pounds of thrust or something like that. On the show, though, the military wouldn’t ever lend them one. Well, I guess that’d be ‘give,’ since it’s not like they’d be getting it back. They did a bunch of rockets with an equal amount of thrust each time they tried the myth, though. One they designed themselves, one they had help from a local rocketing club to make, and the last one was just a bunch of mini rockets all strapped together, if I remember correctly,” Bruce explained as he scanned some diagrams unrolled on the hood of the Camaro. “This is Tony’s project, really, so I don’t know exactly what he has planned.”

“Oh, I’ve got something in mind, don’t worry. I’m not going to use anything but the best for my rocket car,” Tony said. He stepped back and examined his handiwork.

Bruce looked up at the clock on the wall and started when he saw it was mid-afternoon. With the realization came a massive hunger pang. He, too, stepped back from the car. “I need a break. Actual food. You should probably eat something, too, Tony.”

“I’m good,” replied his bro, hanging halfway out of the trunk. “But feel free to grab a bite. I’m good for now.”

“I’ll stay,” offered Clint with a wink. “You and Nat go get something good, okay?”

Heat flooded Bruce’s cheeks, and the way Natasha stood, graceful as a gymnast even in her slightly masculine street clothes, sent an excited flutter to his stomach. She nudged him playfully with her shoulder. “I’ll be back later!” he called behind him as he slid his arm around her waist. They left.

“No rush!” Tony shouted after them, sharing a grin with Clint.

 

—————

 

The next morning Bruce stepped into the garage at his normal, early time. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes, but he felt too committed to his promise to Tony to back out of the project. Leaving Natasha had been difficult, but he’d started a pot of coffee brewing for her and sent out for breakfast to be delivered in an hour. It wasn’t great, but under the circumstances it was the best he could manage. For himself he’d grabbed a bagel and some cream cheese from the fridge and planned to nibble at it while going over some of the schematics Tony had thrown together. He wanted to get a head start on that to forestall any problems the billionaire might cause. Not that Tony wasn’t capable—he built all of his own suits, after all—but Bruce always felt better looking over things for dropped decimals and such.

So he was very much surprised to walk in and see his bro already hard at work with a blowtorch and welding mask. Sparks flew off the side of the car where the man knelt, and Bruce shook his head in disbelief. “What are you doing up so early?” he asked, setting his breakfast down. He walked over to examine the progress on the Camaro.

“Morning already?” replied Tony. He capped his torch and lifted the mask to look at his watch. “Wow, so it is. Funny, that.”

“You were up all night?” Bruce shook his head in exasperation. “We’ve talked about this, remember? We had that meeting last month, and we all said you needed to get at least four hours a night. You signed a pledge and everything.”

“Oh, come on, Banner. You know better to trust anything I say or sign when I’m sleep-deprived.” He took a long gulp from the thermos at his side.

“Exactly! That’s why we had the meeting: so people would stop taking advantage of you. Pepper convinced you to sign over the rights to the royalties on one of your patents so the money would go to some strange housing project in Canada. Clint got you to loan him ten thousand dollars that you know you’ll never get back. You even told Coulson you’d build him an Iron Pony because, and I quote, you thought ‘it’d be a good friend for him.’”

“Hey, I stand by that remark.”

“You told that guy from accounting you’d help him campaign for Donald Trump!”

The billionaire looked like he was about to say something, then paused. “You’re making that up.”

“He bought a box of buttons from the website. You’re supposed to go out with him next Tuesday.”

“Hmm…” Tony rubbed his goatee. “I’ll have to talk with him about that. Later. After I get this thing flying.”

“Take a nap, Tony. Go sleep. I’ll wake you up at noon, and you’ll be able to get more work done then.”

“No, thanks. Why don’t you make yourself useful and take a look at the rocket? I need you to do some calculations on how exactly we’re going to mount it to the roof of the car.”

“‘The rocket’...?” repeated the scientist. He turned and saw a wide, gray cylinder standing in the corner of the room. He muttered a string of swear words and strode quickly to inspect it. He dropped his glasses over his eyes and scanned the information on the side of the cylinder. Underneath the huge S.H.I.E.L.D. logo stenciled on the metal was a long serial number and a set of organizational data, as well as information on the type and amount of explosive contained within. Bruce whirled around. “Tony, what the hell? Where did you get this?”

“S.H.I.E.L.D supply bunker. Cap really should have a talk with the guards there. Surprisingly lax for such a ‘secret’ organization. Any schmuck could just fly in off the street and take one of those things.” He didn’t look up from the diagram he was examining.

Bruce backed away very slowly from the rocket. “Having one ticking time bomb wasn’t bad enough, so you brought an  _ actual _ bomb into the tower?” he asked, head spinning. “What’s the payload on this thing?”

“Don’t worry. It’s not nuclear.”

“Big load off my mind, then,” retorted Bruce.

The billionaire looked up. “No need for sarcasm. It’s one of mine—well, from before Stark Industries became more about powering people’s homes and less about destroying them. It’s a regular, old, rocket. About 6000 thrust output. No shrapnel of death, no melty-face goo, no Greek fire. Just sheer power to make me and this car go flying.”

Bruce shook his head, massaging his temples. “It’s too early for this.”

“Too early for what?” asked a voice at the door.

The scientist’s heart leapt into his throat. The visitor was medium height—just a little taller than Bruce himself—and his dusky hair was brushed neatly away from his face. He wore an expertly tailed blue suit, the kind with a shadow-stripe in the weave, and an expensive silk tie was knotted around his neck. He looked around the room, his sea-blue eyes curious in his open, friendly face. Bruce stared at him dumbly as he attempted to find a reply. “Erm, well, you see, Agent Coulson—” 

“How many times have we had this conversation, Banner? Just call me ‘Phil’ or ‘Coulson.’ We’re colleagues. I don’t need my job description thrown at me, too.” He grinned self-deprecatingly and glanced around the room. “Hey, Stark. Didn’t see you over...holy mother of God. Is that what I think it is?”

To the scientist’s dismay he realized that Coulson’s eyes had landed on the battered, but still recognizable frame for the Camaro. He prepared himself to put all the blame squarely where it belonged: on Tony’s broad, well-muscled shoulders.

Coulson’s next words caught him off-guard, however. “Is that a rocket car?”

Tony looked up from examining the joints he’d been welding. “Yeah! How’d you guess?”

The agent grinned toothily. “I saw a show on it once, and I know my way around flying vehicles.”

“You know that episode of  _ Mythbusters _ , too?” queried the goateed man. Excitement sparkled in his dark eyes.

“Of course! I need something to fill the hours in between assignments.” Coulson strode over, hands in pockets. “You’re reinforcing the frame to bear the extra stress?”

“Right, and making sure it can handle the weight of the rocket. I’m using a lightweight one, but I need to make sure that nothing deforms when I install it. Otherwise, it will throw off the entire balance of the car. But if my calculations are right, I should be able to do it using the diagram I created. I’ve got it set up to keep the weight of the whole rig down enough to ensure flight.”

“That’s important. If the weight is too high once you factor in fuel, you won’t lift off—not for very long, anyway. But this doesn’t look like how Jamie and Adam did theirs,” remarked the agent.

“Not exactly. I thought their method might be fundamentally flawed and impractical, since the original myth is sort of vague. Maybe the myth didn’t happen exactly as it was written, but I want to prove that the basic idea is plausible.”

“Sounds like fun.” Coulson hesitated, then asked, “So...could you use a hand with anything?”

“Sure!” replied the billionaire enthusiastically. “Grab a wrench and some bolts and start attaching that piece right there to the passenger well. I need it to brace the roof.”

Coulson slipped his jacket and tie off and slung them over the backseat “couch.” Rolling up his sleeves, he dashed to the toolbox and began pawing through its contents.

Bruce just stared.

“Everything all right?” Tony asked, catching the scientist’s eye.

He just shook his head in defeat. “Nothing,” he muttered. He walked over to the diagrams and began looking for the next part to work on.

 

—————

 

Later that morning Natasha appeared, carrying her travel mug of coffee. She pecked Bruce on the cheek before settling down on the couch beside Coulson’s clothes, which were slowly piling up as he stripped down into things he didn’t mind getting greasy. Currently, that consisted of his white undershirt and a pair of beat-up purple sweatpants he’d borrowed from Bruce. 

Clint appeared about ten minutes behind her, his hoodie unzipped to reveal a grease- and paint-splattered shirt. His baggy jeans were cut off just below the knees and had seen better days. “I thought I might see if you needed any help,” he said, shrugging off the hoodie and cracking his knuckles.

“Thanks. Can you get the other end of this beam? Hold it in place so I can drill some more holes in it,” Coulson said.

“Got it.” Clint walked over and held it steady while the agent wielded a powerful hole saw from Tony’s collection of tools. 

Bruce watched this whole scene, incredulous. The three men puttered around the car. There was no fighting, no arguments. No angry voices asking why Tony was in charge. All of them were united in a common goal: make the car fly instead of just crashing into the base of the cliff. Even Nat, settled into her spot on the backseat couch, watched the proceedings intently, offering suggestions here and there and helping gauge whether things were straight. She’d revealed to Bruce the night before that she wasn’t really a “car person” except that she found the fast ones appealing; she didn’t really care about their inner workings as long as the worked when she needed them to. To that end, she was more than happy to just hang out and watch while everyone tinkered.

“Hey, what’s wrong?” she asked him now, seeing his face.

The scientist turned and said, “I’m just….I don’t know. They’re all cooperating so well. But don’t they understand how this can only end in tears? Tony is going to end up a smear on the side of a cliff, and they don’t even seem to notice. Not to mention the car itself and the rocket…”

Natasha shook her head and pressed one finger to her lips. “They’re not noticing because they’re not trying to notice. You think Coulson doesn’t know the origin of the car, or that there’s a S.H.I.E.L.D. rocket standing in the corner? He doesn’t care about that, though. He’s more interested in the project. Same with Clint. Give our friends more credit than  _ that _ .”

“It just feels like they’re purposely trying to get Tony killed by ignoring it,” Bruce whispered, watching sparks fly from various tools. “Why don’t they try to stop him?”

A small smile played on her lips. “Why don’t  _ you _ try?”

“Are you kidding? You know what a force of nature Tony is when he gets an idea in his head. You’d have to either knock him out cold or seduce him in order to get him to leave off.” He caught the glimmer in his girlfriend’s green eyes and sighed. “I get your point.”

She reached up and squeezed his hand. “It’ll all work out, Bruce.”

“I hope so.” He looked over at the others, then grinned wickedly at Natasha. “You wouldn’t—”

“I’m not going to seduce him, Bruce. He’s a grown man who can make his own mistakes. If he wants to careen into a cliff at an unholy speed, then that’s his prerogative.” 

“I love you.”

She smiled up at him. “I love you, too.” She smacked his leg and nodded towards the car. “Better go help them before they get the wrong idea, that you’re only doing it because you’re being forced to.”

“Fine…”

Just as Bruce was on his way over to the car, he heard the door open. Steven Rogers, known to the rest of the world as Captain America, strode in. Rather than his iconic red, white, and blue suit, he wore a navy windbreaker with a flag embroidered over his heart. His jeans were neat and tidy, though Bruce wasn’t sure where the man had managed to find a tailor who still made things in a 1940s cut. Every blond hair on his head was perfectly in place, almost as if it’d been shellacked there after combing. Icily his eyes surveyed the room, then landed on Bruce. He strode over purposefully and said, “Banner, good to see you.”

“Good to see you, too, Steve.” Bruce ran his hand nervously through his dark curls. “What can I do for you?”

“We were doing inventory at the S.H.I.E.L.D. supply depot today, and we came up with a few things missing. I thought I’d come over to see if you might have borrowed anything, since I know you’re always working on important projects.” He pulled a list from the pocket of his jacket and unfolded it. “‘A dozen six by eight sheets of grade 6061-T6 aluminum; ten I-beams, various lengths and gauges; four boxes of solder,’” he read. “But those are all no problem. We have to replace those regularly, and it’s just a pain in the neck in terms of accounting. What we’re really worried about this this last item, though.”

“Oh?” asked Bruce, struggling to keep his voice steady.

“Yes. One of Stark’s missiles is missing from the silo. It’s not one of the really dangerous ones, but we’re afraid someone might have taken it to reverse engineer the technology. Most governments aren’t all that interested or are too advanced for that, but there are some smaller splinter groups that could be a threat with that kind of weapon, even just one.” He looked into Bruce’s brown eyes. “Have you heard anything?”

A bead of sweat trickled down the scientist’s forehead. “W-well…” He risked a glance at the cylinder in the corner.

Steve followed his gaze and jerked as if tased. “For the love of—” He looked around the room and spotted Tony with Clint and Coulson, then stalked over to them. Bruce jogged behind. “Tony, what do you think you’re doing?” demanded the patriotic super-soldier.

Tony straightened and put down his drill. “I’m working, Cap. What do you need?”

Steve gestured at the rocket. “You  _ stole _ a rocket from the S.H.I.E.L.D. supply depot! What were you thinking? You can’t just go and take weapons from S.H.I.E.L.D.!”

“It’s my rocket,” the goateed man said. “I built it. Well, my company built it, but same difference. It’s not stealing if it’s mine in the first place.” His tone was reasonable, but his brow furrowed. It always furrowed when he was speaking to Steve.

“It belongs to S.H.I.E.L.D. I’m going to take it with me and put it back.” He glanced at the other materials lying around the garage: the scraps of aluminum, the beams, the open box of solder half-dumped on the floor. “These other things, too.”

“You can’t,” said Tony. “They’ve already been used. I’ll give you a hundred bucks for the lot, and you can have a nice day.” He reached back and pulled out his wallet.

“I don’t want your money, Stark. I want to know why you think you can just waltz in wherever you please and do whatever you feel like doing. You never think about the consequences, but this time you’re going to. You’re going to come explain yourself to Fury.”

Tony shrugged. “I need them for a project.”

“What kind of project?” Steve demanded, arms crossed.

“I’m building a flying car. I’m going to mount a rocket on the back, hop in, set it off, and go flying towards a huge cliff to prove that it can be done.” Tony mirrored the blond man’s pose.

Steve stared at him long and hard. The room was silent as the seconds on the clock ticked past. Finally, he said, “I’m morally obligated to tell you that I think that’s a terrible idea. But...I’m not actually morally obligated to stop you.” He sighed and dropped his arms to his sides. “If you need any help getting the car out to the testing site, let me know.”

He turned and left the room, leaving ten pairs of eyes staring after him.

 

—————

 

The next afternoon everyone gathered at the testing site: a highway heading towards the Adirondack Mountains. While the roads within the mountains were full of switchbacks and narrow routes with guardrails clinging to the rocks with tenuous metal bolts, the highway leading up to those routes was far straighter and flatter. Pines closed in on either side of the two-lane highway strip, and weeds grew tenaciously in between cracks in the crumbling asphalt. The straight stretch led to a curve and terminated in a sheer cliff face; the side of the mountain had been blown away decades earlier when the WPA had built the roads. The cliff loomed above them, nearly fifteen hundred feet tall, the dominant feature of the landscape for miles around, and it stood less than two miles from them.

They were all there: Bruce, adjusting his windbreaker and holding a tablet computer in his hands; Natasha, comfortable in her sweatshirt and jeans in the brisk spring air; Clint, hands plunged deep into the plush pockets of his downy, dark-purple coat; Phil Coulson in a gray wool peacoat and laplander hat, smiling curiously at the scene; and Steve in his leather jacket, his scarlet-and-white-striped scarf matching his star-spangled ski cap. Tony was there, too, of course. He’d switched out his trench coat for a flame-retardant racing suit at Bruce’s insistence, though he protested the change mightily.

“I know what I’m doing!” he’d exclaimed that morning as they loaded the rocket car into the van they’d rented to transport it. “I won’t need any of this stuff.”

“You’re wearing it anyway,” Bruce said. “And don’t forget your helmet, too.”

Now Tony sighed and handed the duffel bag containing his clothes to Clint. “How many times will I have to tell you guys that this is going to work?”

“At least one more,” replied the scientist reasonably. 

“Do you at least have the camera up? I want to put the dash cam video on Youtube when this is all done.”

“If there’s anything left.”

“Hmm? You say something?” 

“Nothing.” Bruce looked up from the tablet. “Did you bring your helmet like I told you to?”

“Yes,  _ Mom _ .” Tony reached into the driver’s side of the rocket car and pulled out a pale pink bike helmet. He plopped it on his head and snapped the clip closed. “What?” he asked, seeing everyone’s bemused expressions.

“It’s...lovely,” Clint replied, barely able to contain his grin.

“Grow up.” Tony adjusted the helmet. “I would’ve had time to spray paint it if  _ someone  _ hadn’t demanded this unnecessary—”

“Completely necessary,” interjected Bruce.

“ _ Unnecessary _ suit.”

“Why didn’t you just wear one of your Iron Man suits?” asked Natasha.

Tony shrugged. “It’d clash with the paint job.” He patted the fresh coat of bright yellow enamel he’d painted on the Camaro. Before anyone could reply, he opened the door and slid into the driver’s seat. “See you from the top of the cliff!”

Everyone made their own goodbyes, but Bruce stood apart. A pang hit him in the chest. Tony was smiling and cracking jokes and shaking his friends’ hands, completely oblivious to the fact that he was going to bed dead in less than three minutes. His bro was going to be  gone, and he—

Maybe he’d sometimes gotten frustrated with Tony’s harebrained schemes. Maybe he’d wanted to spend time with Nat or work on the official projects instead of being part of another wacky experiment. Maybe he’d sometimes fantasized about going full-out Hulk on Tony when his acerbic jokes had gotten too far out of hand. But despite all of these things, he and Tony were still best bros, together until the end. Tony always had his back. Bruce, to his dismay, realized he wasn’t doing the same. Tony was about to die, and the scientist was just sitting to the side. Letting him.

Bruce dashed forward to where Tony stood with the door to the Camaro open. “Wait!” the curly-haired man cried.

“What now?” sighed Tony, rolling his eyes.

He plucked at his bro’s sleeve. “Don’t do this,” he pleaded. “It’s not worth it. We can set it up to be remote controlled. I’ve got stuff in the truck. We’ll do a remote starter on the rocket, or Clint could use one of his arrows to set it off. But...don’t die.”

Tony looked down into Bruce’s eyes, wide and dark and nearly brimming with tears. A small shadow seemed to fall across the billionaire’s own eyes, and a muscle in his mouth twitched. Gently, so gently, Tony uncurled Bruce’s fingers from his sleeve. “I’ll be okay,” he said, his voice containing none of its usual mirth.

He climbed into the car and swung the door closed. Deftly he pulled the seatbelt across his chest. Bruce stepped back, afraid to say anything else and risk actual tears. He swallowed hard against the fist-sized lump in his throat. Tony grinned and gave him a thumbs up, his other hand resting lightly on the wheel.

Just as he was about to turn the key and start the engine, another vehicle came whipping up the road. It skidded to a halt just behind the crowd, reflecting their surprised faces. It was an official-looking black SUV, its highly polished sides and pristine chrome rims and trim looking incredibly out-of-place on the rustic mountain road. The driver’s side door flew open and a tall man with rich ebony skin and an eyepatch over one eye tore out. His long coat flapped around his ankles as he walked, an ominous slapping sound. He stomped over towards the car shouting, “Stark! Get out of my Camaro!”

A look of panic struck the goateed man’s face, and he twisted the key in the ignition. In a flash the car zoomed off, spewing dark smoke from the exhaust. Bruce and the others watched as it sped towards the cliff.

Time seemed to slow as the rocket roared to life. The sound was like a cannon blast echoing through the trees and off the vertical face of the cliff. The car zipped down the road, jumping over the cracks in the pavement. Flames burst from the back of the rocket like a comet’s tail, igniting fallen pine needles in quick-burning bundles. There had been enough rain lately to keep the rest of the forest from catching fire, luckily, but the tiny lights were like candles in the car’s wake.

The Camaro shrank to a pinprick in the distance.

Bruce glanced down to the recording on his tablet and swallowed again. The cliff was coming closer and closer with each passing instant. He wanted to squeeze his eyes shut against his best bro’s inevitable doom, but he was unable to. He was frozen.

Then, just before the modified Camaro slammed into the cliff at an ungodly speed, it _ changed _ . Not the cliff, but the car. The doors slid out to form what looked like wings, the speed and aerodynamic nature of the car giving it lift. Dramatically, it began to soar upwards.

The crowd gaped as more things on the car began to shift. The roof of the car lifted and slid around; the hood flipped up and seemed to fly towards the back; the trunk popped up and rolled to one side. The wheels turned on their sides, then twisted out at strange angles. The undercarriage rotated around, pipes splitting with great blasts of steam and oil spraying the surrounding rock and trees. Clanks and creaks burst forth mechanically through the tablet.

The car seemed to be breaking apart.

Bruce’s world, too, was breaking.

But, strangely, some of the sides of the car formed arms, the pipes were fingers grasping at the rocky surface of the cliff. The fingers dug deeply in, dragging broad scars through the cliff face, until the car clung in one spot on the side of the cliff. The eyes of the viewers far below widened as the car...thing...began to climb.

Slowly, slowly, hand over robotic hand, it hauled itself up the sheer mountain face. Stones tumbled down to the ground, their clattering picked up by the dash cam in what was now the thing’s face. The dust raised by their fall was visible even to the crowd a mile away. From the camera feed Bruce could see the ridges to which the robot’s fingers held. Where there were no ready-made handholds, it pulled back and punched out a fistful of rock to create one. 

Once, nearly at the top, the robot slipped and scrambled for grip. The onlookers held their breaths, not daring to make a sound, as if their silence would affect the outcome in any way. But as they watched, the robot swung steadily back and found a new place to hang on. Bruce’s inner cynic muttered that the display had just been for show rather than from any real danger; it was the sort of thing he expected from Tony, after all. He kicked that part of himself and reminded that voice that it should be glad nothing had ended in disaster.

Moments later—long, torturous moments—the robot finished its ascent of the cliff and stood tall upon it, victorious. The others all burst out in cheers and applause. On the tablet Bruce could see it looking out over the treetops, practically all the way to the end of the earth. The view took the scientist’s breath away. 

The robot turned its head and Tony’s grinning face under the ridiculous pink bike helmet appeared. “Hey, everyone!” he crowed.

Bruce jumped and stammered, “Y-you’re alive!”

“Of course I am!” Tony rolled his eyes. “You didn’t  _ really _ think I’d die, did you?”

“Um…”

“C’mon, buddy. You know me better than that. Pretty cool, though, huh? You like what I’ve done to it? I told you I’d make this thing fly.”

“I don’t think it’s really in the spirit of the rocket car myth to turn it into a robot…” Bruce said, struggling to contain his elation at his best bro’s continued existence.

“Eh, probably not,” Tony agreed, nonplussed. “But it looked pretty sweet in the meantime, didn’t it?”

“Sure.”

Suddenly, Coulson ripped the tablet out of Bruce’s hands. “Stark, I think it might be a good idea for you to come back down here right now.”

Up on the cliff, the bot suddenly rose in the air. The car doors spread wide over its back like a pair of brilliant golden wings, and the outer edges glowed with the electric blue of Tony’s patented repulsor jets. It leapt in the air, then glided majestically downwards, diving like a falcon in flight. It skimmed the tops of the trees, bending them nearly double in the draft which followed. It flew overhead, banked, then returned in a gentle arc before pulling up fast. Carefully, Tony adjusted the jets and allowed it to settle calmly to the pavement. With a series of screeching, grinding clangs the robot’s body collapsed back into the form of the Camaro. Tony hopped off the vehicle just before it returned to its normal size and shape. “Hey,” he said with a grin.

Before anyone else could reply, Fury marched forward. He shoved everyone else aside, an unreadable expression on his face. He stood in front of Tony. His breath came hard and fast, nostrils flaring with every inhalation. His fists clenched and unclenched. His mouth moved, yet no sound came out, like a fish.

The others moved back a step.

Nervously, Tony mumbled, “Um…”

Nicholas Fury, Director of S.H.I.E.L.D., raised his hands and stepped forward.

Tony flinched.

Suddenly, the one-eyed man enveloped the billionaire in a massive bear hug. Tony stiffened, surprise in his dark eyes. “You turned my Camaro into Bumblebee!” Fury exclaimed.

“Uh, yeah, I did,” replied Tony uncertainly. His eyes darted left and right, then locked with Bruce’s. In them was a silent plea for help.

“How did you know I love  _ Transformers _ so much? Cars that turn into robots and back are the coolest things on the planet. And Bumblebee was always my favorite, even if I despise Volkswagen. I can’t believe you built me a Transformer!” Fury squeezed Tony even tighter. “This is the best birthday ever.”

Bruce and Tony shared a look of astonishment, their expressions mirroring one another. “His birthday?” the billionaire mouthed.

Bruce did a few rough calculations in his head, then nodded shortly. He glanced at the others. Clint and Natasha seemed as surprised as Tony, but Steve was grinning hugely. Coulson swiped a tear from his eye at the joy in his boss’s voice.

Tony recovered quickly and gave the S.H.I.E.L.D. director a manly pat on the back. “Happy birthday, Fury,” he said. “I’m glad you like it.”

Fury returned the manly pat and continued hugging the billionaire.

Seeing them standing there like that, a strange sense of annoyance rose in Bruce’s chest. His inner voice whispered how unfair it all was: his bro committed grand theft auto, virtually destroyed the car he stole, almost died—not to mention lifting materials from a closed compound and lying and getting no sleep and making Bruce worry crazy amounts. And yet there he stood, hugging an overjoyed Nick Fury, facing exactly zero consequences for his behavior. Logically, Bruce knew he shouldn’t be too upset; after all, he’d played his own (albeit reluctant) part in the creation of the rocket car, and he didn’t like the idea of being implicated in any of the felonies his bro had committed. However, his sense of justice and equality was deeply offended. He turned to Natasha and glowered. “It’s not fair. He’s getting off scot-free. Again.”

She sidled closer and wrapped his callused hand in hers. “I’m not sure.” She nodded towards the embracing men.

Bruce watched as Fury added, loud enough for everyone to hear, “This is the best birthday ever. But Stark?”

“Yes?” asked Tony, smiling serenely.

“You’re still replacing my Camaro.”

Tony’s eyes opened wide, a look of panic flashing across them. He struggled against Fury’s grasp, which only grew tighter with every squirm. To Bruce he mouthed the word, “Help!” 

The scientist shook his head and slung his arm around his girlfriend’s waist. The myth was still busted, his bro was still alive, and justice had been served. This really  _ was  _ Fury’s best birthday ever.

And he was free to get back to work.


End file.
